


I’ll do what I can to be a confident wreck

by suzukiblu



Series: don't leave me here alone [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Badly-Timed Flashbacks, Bondage, Cognitive Dissonance, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Gender Confusion, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Steve Rogers, Praise Kink, Red Room references, Robots Love Cyborgs, Role Reversal, but the asset's having some trouble remembering that, post-CATWS, references to forced conversion therapy, references to past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The asset is making a den. </p>
<p>His mission wants to come inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ll do what I can to be a confident wreck

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [I’ll do what I can to be a confident wreck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7191719) by [cap_Cookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cap_Cookie/pseuds/cap_Cookie)



> The fluffy nesting aftermath that our heroes deserve. And, uh . . . also the angsty nesting aftermath that they _do not_ deserve. 
> 
> For the record, the flashbacks themselves are pretty minor but the asset maybe does not process them in the healthiest way.

“What do you think, doll?” the asset asks, peering out from underneath the heavy drape of fringed curtain hanging over the mouth of the half-constructed den that is currently taking up most of the walk-in closet.

“Looks good, Buck,” his mission says from his seat on the stripped bed, leaned back against the headboard and taking a sip of the caramel-smelling drink in his coffee mug. The scent of it makes the asset a little dreamy even from across the room, although his mission--Steve--smells nothing like heat at all. 

The asset still doesn’t actually answer to “Bucky”, although he understands people mean him when they say the name. He understood that on the helicarrier, though, so it’s probably less progress than his mission--Steve--would’ve hoped for. He tries to think of it like it’s a pet name, like “alpha” or “doll”, which helps him respond when it’s Steve saying it but not really the rest of the time. 

Then again, the asset doesn’t actually _care_ about the rest of the time, so it’s not like that matters. 

“You said that about the last three,” the asset says, disapproving. He’s made several dens in several places over the course of the day, although he does think this one is the most promising so far. The bedroom itself and living room were too big, the kitchen and laundry room too high-traffic, the studio too cluttered, the vents too small, and he doesn’t even want to _talk_ about the balcony and Tony Stark’s misguided attempts to help. 

The robots were actually very useful--they like the asset, they get along well with his arm--but Stark himself was not. The asset had to use Colonel Rhodes’ emergency frequency to get him to come take him away. Rhodes had been angry that he’d used it when there wasn’t a national emergency until his mission--Steve--explained, after which he’d understood and had dragged Stark out by the ear. He’d left the robots, which the asset had appreciated. 

“I’d like any den you made, Bucky,” Steve says, which makes the asset’s chest clutch up and is grossly unfair. Also, not objectively helpful at all. 

“It needs to be _right_ ,” he insists, grabbing the closest stack of cushions and retreating back into the den with them. 

“Of course it will be,” Steve says, easy and earnest. “You’re making it.” 

The asset has to pause in arranging the cushions to deal with the overwhelming amount of _everything_ swelling up in his chest, then scowls indignantly and goes back to it. Again, that is grossly unfair and _not helpful_ behavior. 

“You’re a terrible handler,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Steve replies mildly. It takes a second for that to register, and then the asset blinks and reorients in the world. His mission-- _Steve_ \--takes those slip-ups in stride, even when the asset doesn’t even notice making them. It’s not something he ever would’ve said to an actual handler either, which he assumes helps. 

Sometimes it’s still a little jarring, though. 

“Alpha,” he says quietly, digging his fingers into one of the cushions. He hears Steve sit up on the bed, although he doesn’t get up altogether. The asset wishes he would, a little bit, but just as much is glad he hasn’t. Old programming is telling him to put his face in the cushions and present for his mission, and he thinks if Steve were any closer he already would be. He wouldn’t mind, but he doesn’t think Steve would like it. 

Steve will accept anything that the asset does simply to do, but never likes anything he does because of the old programming. If he were aroused and presented because of that Steve would kiss his neck and work him open and it would be fine, but if he did it because of defunct programming, it wouldn’t be and he wouldn’t touch him. 

He understands, technically. He just also doesn’t always understand. 

“What do you need?” Steve asks from the bed. The asset curls up around the cushion he’s holding, pinning it in place against his stomach. 

“I don’t know,” he says. He slips the cushion under his shirt without quite thinking about it, although obviously some part of him is thinking about it. It’d have to be. 

“Bucky,” his mission-- _Steve_ \--says, voice going soft. 

“I can’t give you pups,” the asset mutters, pressing into the back corner of the closet to keep out of Steve’s line of sight. He pulls his legs under himself and puts his right hand to the pillow under his shirt. It’s soft and squishy and feels nothing like a pregnant stomach would. He hears Steve slide off the bed and walk over, and he drags one of the blankets over himself in embarrassment to hide his pillow-stretched shirt. The asset _knows_ he’s not an omega. 

But Steve’s his alpha. 

“You _did_ give me pups,” Steve reminds him quietly, settling in next to him. The asset’s eyes flick down to the soft, just-started swell of the other’s stomach and he bites his lip to the blood. That’s his job. He was supposed to do that. But he’s a bad omega. 

“I didn’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t get anyone pregnant.” 

“You were with me the whole heat, Buck,” Steve reminds him with a humorless smile. “You don’t think you’d have noticed some other alpha coming in and knotting me halfway through?” 

“No. Yes,” the asset says, his eyes skating away. He’d have noticed. 

That doesn’t mean he’d have _remembered_. 

He knows he’s an alpha. He knows Steve is an omega. He knows alphas can get omegas pregnant. He knows omegas can’t get alphas pregnant. 

He knows that. 

He also knows he’s damaged goods and has taken Steve out of commission if his unit needs him and is not making any of it better. The _least_ he could’ve done was be the omega he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be the one taking on the burden, getting slow and compromised and--and soft. Soft so the Soldier won’t show so sharply, so Steve will see the man he actually _wants_ in him. So Steve will keep him even after he’s whelped and weaned the pups. 

If it’s like this, though, Steve doesn’t need him at all. 

“Like Bruce said, okay?” Steve murmurs, laying his hands on the cushions between them, palms up and open so the asset could take them if he wanted. He never understands why Steve does that with _both_ hands. He gives him the right one, though, and lets him squeeze it. “They’re our pups. You gave them to me. We’re going to have them together. You’re making a den for us to share, remember?” 

“Alphas don’t get to stay in the den,” the asset mutters, staring fixatedly down at Steve’s hand holding his and Steve’s other hand still lying open and commander-patient, like every time. “Just for rut.” 

“It’s our den,” Steve says firmly, squeezing his hand again. “We decide who stays in it and what for. Right?” 

“It’s our den,” the asset repeats, eyes flickering uncertainly around the cushioned closet. “We decide what it’s for.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, sad and warm all at once. He’s good at that. The asset wishes he weren’t. “That’s what I want. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes,” the asset agrees, staring at their hands again. The right ones, anyway. Not the wrong one. “I want to have a den with you. I want to stay in it.” 

“Then that’s what we both want, so that’s what we’ll do,” Steve says. He lifts the asset’s hand and kisses the back of it, and the asset wants to hurt them both, but mostly himself. 

“Okay,” he says instead. He thinks about taking the cushion out from under his shirt and getting out from under the blanket and getting back to nesting, but that would mean letting go of Steve’s hand and--and that can wait, he thinks. It’s both of them in their den right now, and that’s what he wanted. It doesn’t matter if it’s not quite perfect yet. 

And there’s still that part of him that still feels small and dark and disappointed that he can’t be what he’s supposed to be for his alpha. 

Steve sits with him and keeps holding his hand. They don’t keep talking. The asset waits a while, then very carefully lays his head on Steve’s shoulder. It’s not an alpha thing to do, but Steve told him he liked anything that meant they could be close. 

Steve’s told him a lot of things. 

The asset sits very still with his eyes closed and reminds himself of all of them. 

One of the robots whirs into the bedroom and deposits something on the floor, and Steve makes a soft noise and the asset opens his eyes. It’s Butterfingers with a collection of tangled salvaged blankets that look very comfortable, just right for an exhausted omega and newborn pups with sensitive skin to curl up in. The asset shifts forward to lean out of the closet and scoops them up to sort through. He doesn’t take the pillow out of his shirt. 

Butterfingers and Steve don’t say anything about it. Butterfingers leans down and caresses the wrong arm, but that’s all right because Butterfingers is metal too, and Steve squints at the pile of blankets, expression doubtful. 

“Aren’t those from Stark’s bed?” he asks. The asset automatically fixes him with a look. 

“Why do you know what Stark’s bed looks like?” he asks. Steve pauses, then retreats to the bed and reclaims his abandoned drink to take a very long sip. 

“Carry on,” he says. The asset retreats too, slinking back into the closet with the blankets. It’s for the best. 

The arm recalibrates without the asset’s input, and Butterfingers reaches into the closet to give it a last pat and then whirrs off again. He wonders what they talk about. He assumes they like each other, but that doesn’t really narrow down the topics. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Steve asks from the bed. The asset hangs another blanket over the front of the den. 

“No,” he says. He wants a lot of things, now that Steve asks, but it’s usually like that when Steve is the one doing the asking. When it’s other people--Stark, Potts, Rhodes, Hill, Wilson, whoever--it’s hard to think of anything. Sometimes when it’s Romanoff or Barton he can, at least. He’s not sure what’s different about them. Maybe their senses of timing. 

Or something like that. 

Banner . . . Banner is complicated, but they never talk for very long anyway. Whenever they do Banner’s eyes turn green and his pheromones get strange, and then he excuses himself. Sometimes he gives the asset orders, but they’re always peculiar ones. _Do this instead of that. Tell me how you feel. Tell Tony to put that down. Tell him to pick it up. Tell me no._

But it’s Steve asking, this time, so the problem isn’t the wanting, the problem is how much wanting there _is_. 

“I want other things,” the asset says after a moment, adjusting the blankets. 

“What kind of things?” Steve asks. 

“Too many. Ones that don’t work,” the asset says, watching his hands as he worked. “To be your omega and give you pups. To be Sergeant Barnes for you. I could be sweet to you, then. Could make the den all soft and make myself all soft too and hide the knives so you wouldn’t have to see.” 

“I don’t mind the knives,” Steve tells him. “It’s not like they’re anything new.” 

“No,” the asset says, still keeping his eyes fixed on his work. The second time they met, the knives were there. But--“Sergeant Barnes didn’t have knives.” 

“He had a rifle,” Steve says. He says it calmly, like it’s not a story about his dead alpha. “Pistol too. And he did keep a knife in his boot, actually, although he didn’t fight with it much. Did use it to kill a couple scouts in the field, once, and took out a spy in Paris.” 

“On your orders,” the asset says, automatic. He doesn’t know which answer he wants, but then again, it’s not really a question. 

“Yes,” Steve confirms with a nod. “He’d sleep with it in his bedroll or under his pillow. Went for it first thing if he got woken up unexpectedly.” 

“That was me,” the asset recognizes woodenly. The beginnings of him, before James Buchanan Barnes died and _the asset_ woke up. “He was injected before the Alps mission.” 

“You’re not _not_ him,” Steve says. “It’s all right if you don’t understand that, but I still want you to know.” 

“No. He could knot you right,” the asset says, looking down at the pillow under his shirt and feeling disgusted with himself, barely believing the sensation. Disgust and shame are not things he remembers ever feeling, especially not reflected towards his own actions, but he recognizes them anyway. “He wouldn’t need the things I--the things I want. Maintenance.” 

Steve’s expression darkens. The asset isn’t looking, but he can tell; the feel of the room changes, and he knows how Steve looks when that happens. 

“You never needed what they did to you,” he says. “But I’ll give you whatever you want. You know that, right, Buck?” 

“You say it all the time,” the asset answers, examining the latest blanket he’s picked up. It’s not a confirmation, exactly. Or at all. 

“What _do_ you want, Bucky?” Steve asks, his tone quieter. Soft like the asset doesn’t know how to get, without something forcing it on him. He doesn’t call the asset on the lack of confirmation. 

“You, probably,” the asset says, blanket twisting in his hands. “I think it’s always you.” 

“I always want you too,” Steve says. The asset doesn’t answer, just retreats deep into the den and curls up tight, balling up the blanket he’s holding against his chest. He’s erratic, he knows. His programming is flawed. His-- _personality_. Steve says he wants his den, wants them both to share it, but Steve only says that because he’s seeing the man with a rifle and pistol and only one knife who would’ve never expected to come in for anything but rut and maybe to bring Steve a little food, some small tasty morsel or simple, strengthening meal. Who wouldn’t have knives tucked in all the corners of the soft safe place that was supposed to be for an omega and pups to bond and recover from birth. 

Not the asset, who no one else in the building would trust with a damn _toothbrush_ , much less their pups. 

He did make a shank out of the first one Steve gave him, admittedly, but at the time he’d assumed he was supposed to, so . . . 

So. 

It just proves how unsuited for this he is, the asset knows. The fact he exists at _all_ is that proof--if he were suited, he would not be the asset. He would be James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. The man his alpha wants; the _alpha_ his alpha wants. If he’d been suited for this Steve would’ve come to him in heat and called him _Bucky_ and the asset would’ve _been_ Bucky, would’ve rutted him right and given him pups and--and--

He curls up smaller and breathes very, very slowly. He can smell caramel and Steve’s healthy _bred_ scent and motor oil and metal; he can hear Steve shifting very slightly on the bed and taking small sips of his drink and his own heart in his ears. 

He sleeps, eventually. He can’t always when Steve isn’t around, but for now he’s right here so it doesn’t matter. The asset thinks about the things that might happen to Steve when he’s gone a little too much, probably, except usually it doesn’t feel like enough. He stirs once or twice when he hears U and DUM-E and Butterfingers come back one by one, dragging blankets or pillows. He listens to Steve quietly murmur to them and wonders . . . he doesn’t know what he wonders. 

Too many things for an asset’s brain. 

He wakes up. It’s quiet and dim; there’s a light on next to the bed, but nowhere else, and the room is warm. He runs down the usual mental checklist. He still isn’t Bucky Barnes. 

He doesn’t really expect to be, but he always checks anyway. His alpha would be so happy if one day he just woke up as James Buchanan Barnes free and clear without any of the rest of it: an alpha without the too-sharp cut of the asset’s musculature, strong but still soft enough to touch. A skilled soldier, but one still capable of relaxing and laying still, of cracking jokes and smiling. 

Or just _being_ , without a mission or a meaning. 

The asset takes the pillow out from under his shirt. It smells like him now--the whole den does, from him both assembling and sleeping in it--but the pillow especially. He sets it up on top of a carefully constructed pile in the corner designed for Steve to lay back and be cradled in, to be able to cradle the _pups_ in, then slips out the front of the den again to claim the new pillows and blankets the robots left. 

Steve is sitting on the stripped mattress next to the one lit-up lamp, reading. His mug from earlier is gone, but the asset’s enhanced senses can still pick up a little hint of caramel on his breath even from here. The asset glances at him briefly, making sure he’s fully functional, and Steve gives him a soft, indulgent smile. The asset immediately retreats with the pillows and blankets and goes to work arranging them. The closet is already comfortable enough to be considered a proper den, but Steve deserves every comfort the asset can give him. 

Also, the knives need the extra padding. Just in case. 

“Alpha,” Steve says from the door of the closet a few minutes later, staying on the other side of the curtained blankets. The asset heard him coming, but didn’t really pay attention. If Steve wanted to kill him he would not have to approach without warning, after all--it’s not as if the asset would resist. And he likes Steve close, anyway. 

He flinches anyway, though. Swallows. 

“Yeah, doll?” he manages after a moment, placing the last pillow carefully. The den might finally be good enough. He thinks it’s good enough. 

He wants to believe he could do _anything_ good enough for his . . . for his . . . 

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, touching the curtains. “Omega.” 

“I’m--I’m not,” the asset rasps out roughly, hands fisting so tight in his lap that his entire arm has to recalibrate to adjust to the pressure. 

“Whatever you need to be is fine with me,” Steve tells him, his voice painfully gentle in a way that makes the asset want to hide away completely. “I want you no matter what. Whether you’re an alpha or not is the least important part of whether you’re _here_ or not.” 

“I’m not what you want,” the asset says, the words slipping out before he thinks them through. 

“You’re _who_ I want,” Steve says. 

The asset goes silent. 

“May I come in, omega?” Steve asks quietly. Like an alpha would ask. 

“Yes,” the asset manages, voice still a little strangled. Steve Rogers parts the blankets and leans in, looking around for a moment before slipping inside and sitting down beside the asset. 

“It’s perfect, Bucky,” he murmurs, leaning in close. The asset feels an overwhelming urge to shiver and represses it ruthlessly. He does not deserve Steve this close to him. He does not deserve to _like_ Steve this close to him. 

“I want it to be perfect,” he says, staring down into his lap as his hands fist tight against his thighs again. “I can’t--I can’t give you the things I’m supposed to. The things you’re supposed to have.” 

“I know you don’t remember, but what we’ve got now? You and me, and our pups, and a nice big den for them?” Steve asks, lifting a hand his brush the hair out of the asset’s eyes. “That’s more than I ever thought we were going to get.” 

“Because I fell,” the asset says, still staring at his lap. Even if he _were_ Bucky Barnes, he still wouldn’t even deserve to _look_ at Steve. 

“No,” Steve says, putting his fingers on the asset’s jaw and tugging lightly--not forcing him to turn his head, but asking him to. The asset follows the tugging, because of course he does, and Steve’s face is solemn and serious. “Not because of you. _Never_ because of you. You always would’ve given me this, any chance you could’ve.” 

“But I didn’t,” the asset says, uncertain. He was supposed to, if he’d been--he was _supposed to_. And he hadn’t. 

“I couldn’t get pregnant,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Before the war, I mean--before the serum. I didn’t even have proper heats back then, my pheromones were too weak and my heart couldn’t have taken it anyway. Rut was _awful_ for you, you’d end up pacing and snarling all week and scenting up the place so bad half the neighborhood omegas would go into heat early. Our apartment managers all kicked us out first chance they got, every time.” 

“I don’t understand,” the asset says. That sounds even worse, he thinks--making that much trouble for Steve? How could that _not_ be worse? 

“I was the one who couldn’t give you what you deserved,” Steve tells him. “Not pups, not a proper omega--not even a decent rut partner to help you through. Best I could do was go a round or two and then try to talk you through the rest while it burned you up. But you stayed with me. You still _wanted_ me.” 

“I always want you,” the asset says, frowning at him in confusion. That’s not in question. How could that ever be in question? 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, dropping the hand on the asset’s face to squeeze the back of his metal hand. “And I always want you too. I don’t care which of us is the alpha and which is the omega or which of us carries the pups, and I wouldn’t have cared if we never had pups at all. Not as long as we’ve got each other.” 

“But--I couldn’t give you pups,” the asset manages. He can’t get anyone pregnant. He’s not . . . 

“Bucky. Alpha. Omega,” Steve murmurs, catching up his hand and pulling it to the small swell of his stomach. “You’re giving me pups right now.” 

The asset looks at his hand on Steve’s stomach--on _his mission’s_ stomach--and feels his heart sink straight out of his chest at the sight of cold metal against the curve of it. He snatches the hand back immediately, shaking his head. 

“No,” he says. 

“Bucky--” 

_“No,”_ the asset repeats, even though he’s not sure he could ever back it up. Not against Steve. “The pups will--the pups won’t like it. They’ll be cold.” 

“It’s not cold,” Steve says, looking surprised. “I mean, it’s not as warm as your other hand, but it’s no worse than room temperature.” 

“No,” the asset insists, leaning back to keep his arm away. “It’s always cold.” Every time he’s ever touched it, every time it’s ever touched him--the pups shouldn’t feel that. 

“. . . Bucky,” Steve says, voice gentle again. His voice is gentle all the time, like he thinks the asset can’t handle anything harsh. He’s probably right, which is the worst part. “I swear. It’s not cold. Not in here. It’s just as warm as anything else you brought in.” 

“It’s _not_ ,” the asset says, shoulders tense. Steve looks at him for a long moment, then leans back. He’s got the serious face on again; resolved or resigned, the asset can’t tell which. 

“It’s all right to be scared,” Steve tells him. “Hell, Buck, I’m _terrified_. You can just tell me, though. You don’t need to keep coming up with excuses to keep back.” 

“They’re not . . .” the asset starts, then trails off uselessly, looking away. He doesn’t know what they are. They _feel_ like reasons, but it’s not like he can trust himself to know the difference. He doesn’t even know what _he_ is half the time. 

“Just tell me what you want, okay?” Steve asks. “Not what you think you want to give me.” 

“I don’t know,” the asset says. Steve nods. 

“That’s okay,” he says. “I can wait until you do.” 

“What if I never do?” the asset asks, shoulders tightening. 

“Then you’re still here,” Steve says. “So no loss to me, far as I’m concerned.” 

The asset goes silent again, his eyes on the pillows and blankets underneath them. He cannot imagine the situation in which he is _not_ a loss to Steve, except maybe in a firefight. He can fight better than Bucky Barnes could. He can take more punishment. He can bleed all day and still keep going. 

And he’s not the omega, so it’s not like it would hurt the pups. 

He . . . thinks. He thinks he’s not. He thinks it wouldn’t. He . . . 

“Mmm.” The asset squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates _hard_ on what he--knows. Remembers. The mission is Steve. Steve is his alpha--his . . . his not-alpha. Steve is going to have pups, and he made Steve a den to have them in. And Steve . . . Steve wants him in the den with him. Because it’s their den. Because Steve is _keeping him_. 

“Okay?” Steve murmurs, rubbing the small of the asset’s back. 

“Alpha,” the asset whines helplessly, burying his face in the other’s shoulder. Steve shifts; makes room for him in against his side. The asset presses in closer, wrapping the metal arm around Steve’s back where it won’t touch the other’s stomach and letting the other hook around his front. It’s okay that way, he thinks. “Do you really like it, alpha?” 

“I do.” Steve kisses the asset’s temple, still stroking the small of his back. “You did good. Where’d you hide the knives?” 

“Behind the molding there, there, and there, and in the corners,” the asset says, pointing to each hiding place in turn and then pointing overhead. “And pinning the corners of the canopy, too. Just gotta reach under the folds for them.” 

“Smart,” Steve says approvingly, petting up his back. The asset shifts into it automatically, feeling a little more settled. Steve knows where the weapons are now. He can defend the den better and keep the pups away from them too. “So that’s eleven?” 

“And here,” the asset tells him, tugging up the leg of the soft pants Steve gave him to reveal the knife taped to his calf. 

“We could’ve gotten you a better holster for that,” Steve says, touching it carefully. 

“Shows less this way,” the asset answers, shaking his head. 

“Okay,” Steve says, tugging the fabric back down and smoothing it out neatly. The asset shifts closer into his body, feeling calm and quiet as he breathes in in the almost-caramel scent of the other’s breath. Then he realizes--

“It doesn’t smell right,” he says, pulling back. “Just like me. It should be both of us.” 

“Want me to sleep here?” Steve suggests. The asset considers it. It’s too early for Steve to den down, but he’s already slept in here himself; there’s no reason he couldn’t too. 

Except . . . 

“No,” he says. “That’s not what I want.” 

“Yeah?” Steve asks, searching his face in response. “What do you want, omega?” 

“I want--” The asset hesitates, then makes himself go on. Steve asked. He wants him to. 

And Steve said it was okay, too. 

“I want my alpha,” the asset says, his eyes flicking up to the other’s. “That okay?” 

“That’s always okay,” Steve promises, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “How do you want me?”

“Restrain me,” the asset says, eyes dropping for a moment before coming back up to Steve’s again. There’s not much else he wants to look at anyway. “Please.” Steve’s quiet for a moment, his hand on the asset’s right arm and his expression carefully neutral. 

“How?” he asks eventually. 

“Like this,” the asset says, laying back against the cushioned floor to lift his arms over his head, palms pressing up against blanket-draped and pillow-lined wall. Steve responds best to clear, straightforward requests. “You could wrap the blankets around my arms.” 

“That wouldn’t hold you,” Steve says. 

“It would if you told me to let it,” the asset replies. Steve looks at him and he shifts restlessly under it, fingers curling in on themselves. “Please? It’ll be--I want to be safe.” 

“Bucky, you’re not gonna hurt me,” Steve says, expression going soft again. “Much less the pups. I _know_ you’re not.” 

“No, I . . .” The asset grimaces, because he _should_ have thought of that, but it didn’t even occur to him. The idea of doing anything that could _ever_ hurt the pups makes him sick. “I mean so I . . . so I _feel_ safe.” 

“Oh,” Steve realizes, and somehow his expression gets even softer. Bucky Barnes might have been offended, the asset thinks, but he . . . he is definitely not. Steve leans over to kiss him and runs a hand up the inside of his thigh, easy to feel through the thin material of the soft pants. The asset sighs, pressing into the contact and breathing in bare traces of caramel, and Steve tugs the first layer of blankets away from the wall so the asset can help him twist his arms into it. It’ll hold as long as he doesn’t yank too hard--he built the den thinking of this, just like he was thinking of the pile of pillows that smell most like him for Steve to lean back in and the knives tucked into the corners. 

He tugs at the blankets, just a little, and they hold. Steve kisses him again. He shivers. 

And he feels safe. 

“In me, okay?” the asset pants, squirming up into Steve’s weight. Now that the idea’s in his head, he can’t help worrying the other way might make the pups uncomfortable. And he--and he _wants_ it, too, and Steve wants him to do things he wants. “Knot me, alpha. Come inside and fill me up.” 

“I can do that,” Steve murmurs breathlessly, nipping lightly at his mouth. The asset nips back harder. “Anything you want.” 

“Yeah,” the asset purrs up at him, flexing his arms in the easy restraint of the blankets and already feeling heavy and warm. “I want that. Fill me up, alpha. Rut me good, make me smell like yours. Tell everyone I’m _kept_.” 

_“Jesus,”_ Steve huffs, almost a laugh. His hands hook in the waistband of the asset’s pants and drag them down, and the asset rolls his hips up and off the bed to make it easier, careful around the knife strapped to his calf. He can’t give Steve all the things he should, and he doesn’t deserve to get things he wants, much less get _Steve_. 

But Steve himself--Steve deserves everything _he_ wants. And Steve, for whatever reason, wants the asset. The asset can’t give him the other things he should be able to, but giving him himself? _Wanting_ him himself? That’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. 

“Get me wet for you, alpha,” he says, rolling his hips up under Steve’s hands again, tone cajoling. Steve likes it when he talks like this. _He_ likes to talk like this--for the way it makes Steve react, for the way it makes him feel to say what he wants and ask for things and even _tell_ Steve things. For plenty of reasons. “I feel so good when you do, I love to be all slick and sweet for you.” 

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever had, Buck,” Steve tells him as he pushes his hands up his stomach, intent and reverent. 

The asset likes how talking like this makes Steve talk _too_. 

“Yeah I am,” he purrs, pulling his knees up to squeeze Steve’s sides invitingly. Steve swears _very colorfully_ against his collarbone and the asset lets out a blissful sigh, head tipping back into the blankets. “Wanna be _real_ sweet for you, Stevie, get all soaked and pretty and make myself a nice warm place for you to come.” 

“If you want that you’re going to have to let me actually get my _hands_ on you,” Steve manages past another half-there laugh and a hard shudder, shaking his head against the asset’s shoulder. 

“Yes, alpha,” the asset replies obediently, because he only really feels right when one of them is inside the other and he wants to be sure he’ll get it. Steve would just sit on his knot if he came too quick, the asset knows, but with the pups the idea of locking makes him nervous. This way’s better. “The slick’s in the back right corner behind the knife.” 

“You really did think everything out, huh,” Steve says ruefully as he digs for it, careful to avoid the blade stuck in the floor and concealed by the pillows. As if that’s even a question. The den needs to be perfect, and Steve won’t give him maintenance without--won’t _fuck_ him without slick. At this point the asset’s made sure there’s at least a couple packets of it in every room on the floor, always one in his jeans, and a few more hidden in various other important parts of the tower too. Every single elevator, for starters. 

They only actually use it about half the time--Steve doesn’t need it, he gets soaked as anything without the help, so long as the asset touches him a little--but the asset feels better knowing it’s there anyway, a simple preparation to ease performance of a complex mission. Pleasing Steve is usually very easy but sometimes very hard, and he’ll take any advantage he can get. 

“Oh, it’s an actual _bottle_ in here? Was starting to wonder if we had any of those anymore,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow meaningfully as the corner of his mouth quirks. The asset feels an odd rush at seeing him smile, at being _teased_ \--something so simple and complicated. The rush is not an unfamiliar occurrence, with Steve. 

“The packets are easier to hide,” he says, shifting up to knee hopefully at the bottom of the other’s shirt in an attempt to push it up. Also cheaper, although from what he’s seen of Steve’s bank account that probably doesn’t matter. Still. 

Steve pulls his shirt off and the asset noises contentedly, looking him over as Steve drops the bottle on the pillows and slides his hands up the back of the asset’s thighs. The growing curve to his stomach is even more visible without the shirt, and the asset looks at _that_ and tells himself: _ours, mine, what Steve deserves, what I GAVE Steve_. It rings . . . not quite false, but not quite right, and he shifts restlessly against the pillows, arms catching in the blankets. 

“And the bottle?” Steve asks, amused. 

“So we won’t have to leave the den,” the asset says, the words coming out a little more uncertain than he means them to. He doesn’t really . . . he’s not _sure_ enough of that, still. If he belongs here. Steve’s expression softens, though, and he leans down to kiss him, and the asset is tied to the wall and supposed to stay that way, so . . . so he _does_ belong here. Steve said it, and Steve proved it. Steve is proving it right now, with his hands on the asset’s thighs and his mouth on his mouth. 

If he tells himself enough times, he’ll eventually have to actually remember it. 

Or just . . . _remember_ it. 

“You know, we will have to leave _eventually_ ,” Steve tells the asset with another one of those barely-there smiles between soft little bites to his chest. The asset is distracted with squirming, but glances questioningly at him anyway, and Steve smiles a little wider. “Food? Water?” 

The asset gives him a strange look and Steve pauses for a moment, then ducks his head into his shoulder with a huff. 

“There’s food and water in here, isn’t there,” he asks wryly. The asset would be offended that Steve had thought there _wouldn’t_ be, but he sounds like he’s about to laugh. Anything that makes Steve sound like that is fine, the asset has long since decided. “Alright, stupid question. But--” 

_“Steve,”_ the asset stresses, hooking a leg around Steve’s waist and tugging him down against himself. Their stomachs press together, the asset’s breath catching at the change in Steve’s and the sharp awareness of what it means--and their _cocks_ press together, too, and that’s what makes _Steve’s_ breath catch. “Steve,” the asset says again, tone pleading. He is perfectly aware of when to press his advantage. “I wanna be _wet_ for you, Steve, please.” 

“Jesus,” Steve grunts under his breath, his fingers digging into the asset’s thigh. The asset makes a certain breathy noise that he tends to make when Steve is already inside him, although usually it’s involuntary. Hearing it makes Steve’s gaze go sharp and hot, which is a good sign. The asset always gets what he wants when Steve looks at him like that. 

“Please,” he says again, letting his legs fall open loose and careless under the other, and Steve groans and buries his face in his chest. 

“You’re gonna _kill_ me, Buck,” he swears, reaching down between them to brush his fingers over the asset’s half-blown knot. 

_“Never,”_ the asset swears right back, and Steve jerks down sharp against him. The asset’s made him react less strongly with a bullet. With _multiple_ bullets. 

“Bucky,” Steve says again, low and hurt-voiced as he looks up, and the asset’s arms flex against the restriction of the blankets but don’t pull out of it. 

“I wouldn’t,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re keeping me. I _want_ you keeping me. I don’t belong to anyone else.” 

“Yeah, Bucky, you’re mine,” Steve promises, lifting his head to kiss him again. The asset savors the contact, secured and settled-in, and kisses back. Steve’s hands slide up his thighs again and cradle his hips and he pushes up into them with an approving purr, tightening the leg around his back. 

“C’mon, alpha, _c’mon_ ,” he purrs, rolling his hips up again and relishing the choked noise Steve lets out against his ear as the other fumbles for the slick. “Gettin’ slow on me already, doll? You’re not even ripe yet, how bad you gonna be in six months? Are you even gonna be able to fuck me at all or am I gonna have to do it myself?” 

“Would you, omega?” Steve asks like it wasn’t just the first dirty thing the asset thought to say, watching him with heated, curious eyes as he works a hand between them again to slide slick fingers back behind the asset’s balls. His face is much more flushed than it usually gets this soon. 

“You--no,” the asset says, blinking quickly as he attempts to recalibrate. “I wouldn’t. I’m good. I wouldn’t do that.” 

“Why not?” Steve asks. His fingertip rubs lightly across the asset’s hole, just barely catching, and the asset goes a little dizzy between the contact and the confusion. 

“I’m yours,” he manages. “That’s for you.” 

“You don’t touch yourself?” Steve asks, his eyes flicking up to the asset’s face and his fingers stroking over his hole in small, steady motions. The asset pants for breath, his heart rate spiking, and shakes his head. 

“That’s for you,” he repeats. There’s a trace of concern in Steve’s expression, but the asset can’t figure it out. He _likes_ it, but he’d never do it without Steve--Steve wants to _know_ when he likes things, and Steve likes it too. “It makes you feel good. If I do it by myself you don’t get to feel good.” 

Steve is silent for a moment, expression pensive, but his fingers don’t stop stroking soft and small and increasingly overwhelming. The asset starts shivering and wants to coax more out of him, but isn’t sure he can interrupt that look--which is, for the record, not fair at _all_. 

Not _“fair”_ , the asset thinks, and nearly laughs at the thought. At the idea he could even _have_ that thought. 

“What if I liked it?” Steve asks, head tilting slightly; the asset blinks, and takes a moment to catch up again. Steve slides a finger into him as he tries to, which doesn’t help very much but feels more than good enough to be worth the inconvenience. “Would you do it then?” 

“I’d do anything you liked,” the asset replies immediately. Steve frowns and shakes his head. 

“No, not--sorry, that was my fault,” he murmurs. The asset is momentarily wary, but then Steve curves the finger inside him in a way that feels _perfect_ and he forgets why. “I mean . . . would you do it if you had . . . _permission_.” 

“. . . no,” the asset says after a long moment’s consideration, shaking his own head in return and trying not to squirm as Steve rocks his finger in a little deeper. It’s hard, not in the least because he knows Steve wouldn’t mind if he did. “It’s not as good without you there.” 

“What if I was?” Steve asks. “Could I watch?” 

“Watch me--” the asset hesitates, then has to stop thinking to hiss hoarsely against the feel of Steve rubbing his rim with another finger, his head pressing back into the pillows. “Mmm. Watch me fuck myself?” he manages breathlessly, not sure he understands. “W-why?” 

“I like seeing you happy,” Steve says. “It’d be nice to watch. And you’d look . . .” He trails off, flushing darker, and the asset stares up and him and remembers-- _something_. He thinks. 

“Y’wanna draw it?” he asks, the words coming up almost instinctively. The smirk that comes with them is _definitely_ an instinct. It’s not something he knows how to do if he thinks about it. “Wanna tell me I’m pretty while I’m ruttin’ some pillow with my fingers all up inside?” 

“Yes,” Steve says, simply and _painfully_ honestly, and it’s enough to shudder the smirk right off the asset’s face. “I’d get you a toy too, if you wanted. The knotting vibrators they make now--well, they can do a lot more.” 

“ _Fuck_ , doll,” the asset chokes, eyes widening as he stares up at the other. He wonders if--if maybe _Steve_ \--

“Yeah,” Steve goes on, working another finger into him slowly and twisting his fingers so the asset’s gut _burns_. “I’ve got this one, it’s got _settings_ and this, uh . . . this _tickler_ thing, it’s really . . .” 

_“Steve!”_ the asset practically yelps, rocking his hips down _hard_ onto the other’s fingers; Steve just lifts his free hand to pin them against the pillows and the asset snarls instinctively and thinks about Steve using that hand to work some big fat toy in when he’s all heat-slick and needy to fucking knot _himself_ and--and--“SteveSteveSteve, gimme more, hurry up hurry up get _in me_ \--” 

“Does that mean you’ll touch yourself?” Steve asks breathlessly, his fingers scissoring _too fucking slowly_ inside, and the asset only remembers he’s supposed to keep his arms tangled in the blankets at the last possible second, just _barely_ averting the yank that would’ve brought them down and left his hands free to do just that. 

“Yes, yes,” he gasps out instead, trying to move his hips up under Steve’s pinning hand only hard enough to feel the force of his grip, the weight of resistance against the motion--to feel _safe_ and like he is exactly where Steve wants him. “I’ll do it, I will, I’ll do it any way you _want_!” 

“And if I want you to do it how _you_ want?” Steve murmurs, his fingers still too fucking slow but _so good_ and the floor of the den too soft for the asset to get any relief by slamming his head back against it. Not that he doesn’t try. And try. And _try_. 

“Then I’ll do that, I’ll do that, c’mon c’mon _Stevieeee_ ,” he pleads, hand fisting tight inside the tangle of the blankets and hips struggling against Steve’s grip--but not tight enough to tear, and only hard enough to feel Steve push back. “Please, baby doll, please, gimme your cock, let me fucking have it, give me your _toy_ I don’t care, I don’t, just something, just _knot_ me!” 

“Do you want that?” Steve asks, hesitating. “A toy, I mean, I can go get--” 

“Stevie, I want _you_!” the asset moans in frustration, head hitting the pillows again. “I don’t care how, I don’t, I want you however you’ll take me just as long as you _take me_! Fill me up, fuck me good, _come on_!” 

“Give me a minute. I don’t want to hurt you,” Steve says, voice low with arousal as he works another finger into the asset and makes his thighs quake. The asset laughs, more out of disbelief than anything else. He _knows_ Steve doesn’t want to hurt him. _Steve_ should know it would take much, much worse to. 

“Can’t hurt me,” he says. “How many times have you fucking rutted me this week, you think you’re gonna _hurt_ me?” 

“I think I don’t want to risk it,” Steve says. His fingers scissor again, and the asset accidentally bites his tongue. 

“Please,” he stutters, short and sharp. “Steve, please. I want--you’re gonna _keep_ me, you’re keeping me, why won’t you just _do it_.” 

“I’m going to keep you,” Steve says, shifting in close to kiss the corner of the asset’s mouth. It’s--tender? The asset thinks that’s the word. “That means I can wait as long as it takes, because neither of us is going anywhere.” 

“I--I know,” the asset gets out tightly, hands fists again and eyes screwed shut hard. He’s not sure why he closed them. “I know, but--but please? It’s better when we’re locked. It’s-- _I’m_ better.” 

“I’ll give it to you,” Steve promises, kissing the corner of his mouth again. The asset kisses back, but can’t make his eyes open again quite yet. But people close their eyes when they kiss, and he’s . . . he’s _almost_ sure he’s people, now. Steve thinks he is. Steve believes it. “But you’re good however we are, Buck. Let me--let me make _it_ better _for_ you, okay?” 

“But I’m already wet for you,” the asset pleads, squeezing his thighs against Steve’s sides. “And I’m so fucking _hard_.” 

“Just another minute, Buck,” Steve manages, breathing out roughly, and the asset tries not to tense in misery but all he can think is a proper omega would’ve been slick and soaked from the start, wouldn’t be demanding things, would show _respect_ and be _useful_ , be fat with pups and soft and sweet and _kind_ \--“Omega,” Steve says, nuzzling the asset’s jaw as he crooks his fingers and rubs warm circles in just the right place inside him. “You’re so patient with me, omega. I’m so grateful.” 

“I--okay, okay,” the asset forces out, this close to trembling with how _badly_ he needs--more. More of this, more of _Steve_. More of . . . more of _more_. 

“So patient,” Steve praises, voice approving as his fingers scissor a little sharper, and then kisses him. The tone and the kiss both go straight to the asset’s dick and he whimpers into Steve’s mouth, tightening his knees against the other’s sides again and twisting the blankets tighter around his arms. “So good to me.” 

“Please,” the asset keens as quietly as he can, trying to hold still, trying to be--trying to be _patient_ , good, what Steve wants. “Stevie, Stevie-doll, I--I’ll be patient, I will, I can wait, I can wait I can wait I can wait.” 

“That’s my omega,” Steve husks against the asset’s temple, his fingers rocking in just right and not enough at all, and the asset bites down another whine, vision gone blurry. He doesn’t remember opening his eyes again, but they hurt. “So patient with me. So sweet to me.” 

_“Steeeeeve,”_ the asset sobs, struggling to push up against the other’s hands. He is not patient. He is not sweet. 

He _wants_ to be. 

“S’all right, Buck, I’ve got you,” Steve soothes, pulling his fingers out. Another sob escapes the asset’s throat and his eyes snap shut again, and then the blunt head of Steve’s cock replaces those fingers and he starts mewling instead, hips twitching up. He wants it. He wants _Steve_. He wants to be a good omega and get fat and sweet on his alpha’s come and be what Steve wants and be _good_. 

Better than good. He wants--he wants to be that. 

“I’ve got you, you’re okay. Thank you so much, omega,” Steve murmurs, and pushes in slow. The asset _wails_ under him, back arching up and legs locking tight around Steve’s waist with a ruthless pressure the asset knows from experience will bruise them both, will leave marks, will _show_. Steve groans, and the asset only grips him tighter. 

“Alpha,” he moans desperately. Steve’s hips roll into his and the asset lets out a shocked little cry like it’s not exactly like every other time. Steve’s hips _snap_ into his, and this time he _yelps_. 

He remembers every other time, the asset realizes. 

“So good,” Steve praises quick and breathless before the next snap in, most of it drowned out by the asset’s next yelp. Steve looks down at the asset and it is terrible and tender and everything the asset could want, and much too much for him to handle. “There you are, that’s it, I’ve got you, anything you _want_ , Bucky, you’re so _good_.” 

“Alpha,” the asset moans again, jacking his hips up to meet Steve’s thrusts and choking on hitched little noises with every single one. Everything is too sharp and too bright and just right. “Rut me, alpha, _fuck_ me, alpha, want you in me, want your knot, want it all big and fat inside me, wanna fucking _drip_ with you when you make me leave--” 

“Bucky,” Steve cuts in sharp and sudden, catching his jaw in his hand without slowing his thrusts, and the asset takes a moment too long to reorient, blinking dazedly up at Steve with his mouth hanging just open enough for the little noises to escape. Steve’s face is tense and so serious even as their bodies move together, rucking up the blankets and crushing the pillows, and the asset can’t tell why. “I’m never going to make you leave.” 

Oh. 

That’s . . . oh. 

“Come in me,” the asset blurts painfully, hands fisting in the blankets overhead. “Inside, I want--don’t pull out, I need you _inside_.” 

“I will,” Steve soothes lowly, kissing his forehead. The asset’s skin burns. And--and his eyes. “Not yet, okay? Not--let me be with you a little longer first.” 

“Promise?” the asset pleads. “I’m good to come in, you’ll like it.” 

“I--I know you are,” Steve says roughly, the pace of his thrusts stuttering for a moment and his fingers dropping to dig into the pillows. He looks injured; his jaw’s tight and his brow is furrowed. “I always do, don’t I?” 

“I--you do,” the asset agrees uncertainly as he remembers. Steve’s come inside him every time he asked him to, even though Steve can’t--can’t breed him. Even though he can’t have pups for him. Even though he’s--he’s _bad_ and--and--

“It’s so good inside you, omega,” Steve says, pressing his mouth to the asset’s jaw. The asset--the asset _flickers_ , somewhere deep inside his head. Or it feels like that, anyway. 

Or maybe he already was flickering, and is only noticing it now. 

“Yes, sir,” the asset responds. His handler makes a strange noise and ceases proper maintenance with an unsteady jerk, his elbows locked and shoulders tense, and the asset’s eyes flick over him questioningly, unable to pinpoint the source of injury. His arms are bound and his handler has not discouraged the grip of his legs around his waist, so it cannot be him causing it. It . . . 

It . . . 

He stops, blinking rapidly against a brief rush of unexpected dizziness. His body feels strange, restless and overheated and too vulnerable even for this position; his heartbeat and breathing are both accelerated and his hips are twitching without his conscious input, and the chair is . . . the chair is not the chair. He is flat on his back and the restraints holding him are, when he looks, only soft tangled fabric, and his legs aren’t restrained at all, they’re . . . his legs are . . . 

“Bucky,” his handler says, voice raspy and very _careful_. The asset blinks. And blinks again. 

“Who the--” he starts, and then something flickers again and he shakes his head roughly, tensing up. His handler shifts back, starts to pull out of him, and the asset makes an instinctive noise of protest and tightens his legs. 

Mistake, the asset recognizes--belatedly, because his handler does not immediately strike him for it. But still a mistake, because his handler tenses sharply and the expression on his face is not a safe expression. He drops his legs to plant his heels against the strangely soft floor and exhales, bracing himself for . . . for . . . 

“Bucky,” his handler repeats slowly, laying a hand flat on his chest. The asset blinks. 

The asset-- _in_ hales. 

“Mission,” he says, eyes going heavy for a moment at the barely-there scent of caramel, and then remembers-- _“Alpha.”_

His mission-- _Steve_ \--breathes out harshly, his palm pressing down heavier against the asset’s chest. He’s slipped out of him, his half-lost erection resting against the asset’s thigh, but not in any way that would derive pleasure. The asset makes himself soft and pliant underneath the points of contact, skin suddenly buzzing in an entirely different and much less pleasant way than it was a moment ago. Or--or several moments ago. Maybe. 

“I slipped,” he says with a neutral voice, watching the other. If he’s anything but neutral, it might make Steve’s expression worse. 

“I--yeah,” Steve confirms, clearing his throat. “You called me, uh . . . you called me ‘sir’. I stopped when you--” 

“I know,” the asset interrupts, although the memory of the past few--minutes?--is smeared and out of order and he thinks he’s already missing parts of it, if he ever registered them at all. But he knows, because it’s Steve and Steve would not do anything he thought would damage him. 

Even when that doesn’t matter. 

“Are you all right?” Steve asks quietly. 

“Yes,” the asset answers. He is, even though his skin doesn’t fit quite right anymore and he feels cold where he used to be warm. But he’s the asset--not _the asset_. So he’s all right. 

The slips just happen, sometimes. Sometimes he sees Steve or Wilson and thinks they’re his new handlers, or he sees Romanoff or Barton and assumes they’re fellow assets, or he sees Stark or Banner and instinctively opens his mouth for a bite plate that will never come. Sometimes he prepares himself for maintenance when he should be laying back to get fucked, and others he gets confused when Steve is spread out under him all omega-sweet in his senses. It’s normal. Within parameters. Not--

“Mm,” the asset says, twisting onto his side to bury his face in the nearest pillow. It smells like Steve--his sweat and his pheromones--but not enough. The den smells too much like the asset, and not enough like _Steve_. 

“Do you want--” Steve starts, his fingers brushing the blankets twisted around the asset’s arms, and the asset shakes his head fervently. If Steve unties him he’ll slip again, he thinks, or maybe just collapse completely in on himself: dead weight coming down on the thing inside him that isn’t strong enough to hold itself up. 

“No,” he says. Steve responds better to verbal commands, at least from the asset. Other people he’s willing to trust their tone and body language and make assumptions; the asset, however, always has to be specific. 

So he’s specific. 

“I want you to fuck me,” he tells him. Steve jerks like he’s startled, and the asset frowns. He doesn’t see what’s so startling about it; he’s asked it before, and he only wants to finish what they started. More than that, he wants Steve to put him back in his skin. He wasn’t lying, before--he’s _better_ when Steve is that close to him, pinning him down or wrapped around him. That’s not different just because he can still slip when they’re like that. 

It’s _not_. 

“I don’t . . .” Steve hesitates, but lays down behind him, putting a hand on his hip. He feels, like always, like the one and only _true thing_ the asset knows. 

The asset would go back to the chair for Steve. Steve would not need to hit him or order him--he would bend his knees like it was nothing, lay back limp under the Avengers’ hands and HYDRA’s machines and let the electric current splatter his brains all over the tile, tear apart whatever scraps of a mind he’s salvaged since Steve started telling him he had a name and be something simple instead, not a person with too much want in his bones and slippery fog in his head but a good and obedient _thing_. 

It wouldn’t even take the chair. Steve could just tell him to, and the asset would forget everything else. 

“It’s okay if you can’t get it back up,” the asset says, shifting under the other’s hand, his eyes flicking restlessly across the den and counting concealed knives. It puts Steve off when he slips. He understands. Or . . . knows, anyway. “You could use, uh--you could use the toy.” That would still count, he thinks--still be _Steve_. 

“ _Jesus_ , Bucky,” Steve says with a pained laugh. He puts his face against the back of the asset’s shoulder, so he thinks . . . he thinks it’s all right. Even if Steve doesn’t come in him, that doesn’t actually _matter_ , that’s just--conditioning. Or something he just fixated on to fill in the blank spaces at some point, maybe. 

The important part is that it’s Steve. The rest . . . the rest is really not. 

“You know you don’t _have_ to stop when I slip, right?” he asks, tugging at the blankets just enough to feel the soothing restrictions they put on his arms. He’s never gotten violent, he just forgets things. It’d be safe for Steve to do whatever he wanted to him. And--“It’s not upsetting. I know you wouldn’t damage me.” 

It’d actually be--it might be _nice_ , even, he thinks. Remembering Steve has him when Steve was _already_ having him, that . . . that could be nice. 

“It’s--” Steve struggles for words, and then the asset understands. 

“It’s upsetting for you,” he says. “You don’t like me when I’m like that.” 

“I don’t like _it_ when you’re like that,” Steve immediately corrects. “I like _you_ no matter what.” 

“You went soft.” The asset looks back over his shoulder. Steve looks . . . sad. Maybe that’s the right word. Is there a word for something that’s sad but also guilty and maybe a little angry, but not at anything anyone else can see? Because that word, that would be how Steve looks. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault my edges are too sharp.” 

“I really . . . I really don’t feel that way, Buck,” Steve says quietly, touching the back of the asset’s shoulder. He shifts back into the contact because of course he shifts back into the contact--he would never not. 

“I’m not too sharp?” the asset asks. 

“No, I mean--that too, but . . .” Steve trails off, struggling for words again. 

“It’s your fault I’m too sharp,” the asset guesses. Steve flinches, and the asset’s eyes widen. “It’s _not_ your fault,” he protests. He’s the one who’s wrong, he’s the one with the ugly scars and too-tight muscles and tendons and an arm that should never touch anyone, least of all Steve. Steve is nothing like that at all. Steve could _never_ be like that. 

Steve is--the asset is the knives in the corners. Steve is the pillows and blankets that make them safe to be around. 

Doesn’t he know that? 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and the asset stares at him in confusion. 

“Why are you sorry?” he asks. “You _kept_ me. You call me--you’re my alpha, and you want pups with me, and you kept me. Don’t be _sorry_.” 

“I am,” Steve says. 

“Sorry?” The asset narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. 

“No. I--I’m your alpha,” Steve says slowly, wrapping an arm around the asset’s stomach and pressing up against his back. The asset purrs unthinkingly, body automatically going loose. “And I’m keeping you. You’ve made such a nice den for us, omega, and you’re giving me such strong pups, and I know you’ll protect them. Of course I’m keeping you.” 

“Yeah?” the asset asks, soft and breathless and a little riled up again, even if his skin’s still a bit too tight. It doesn’t matter, with Steve. 

“Yeah.” Steve kisses the back of his neck in a short, hard press of lips. “You’re gonna be such a good ma, Buck. Those pups don’t even know how lucky they’re gonna be, having you.” 

“Mm.” The asset curls in around Steve’s arm, his own tugging briefly at the blankets but staying tangled in them. Steve’s grip and the restriction of the blankets Steve wrapped around him both make him feel kept and calm, and the combination is even more effective. His skin even almost feels normal again. 

“Tell me what you want, Bucky,” Steve says, his mouth against the back of the asset’s shoulder. 

“I’m wet,” the asset reminds him, pushing his hips back into the cradle of the other’s. “Do something about it.” 

“I . . . yeah, okay,” Steve says softly, his arm tightening around the asset’s stomach. The asset can feel Steve’s cock against him, still thick even half-hard and knotless, and he rubs back against him encouragingly. “Just--tell me if you change your mind, okay?” 

“Okay,” the asset agrees, because obviously he won’t. 

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, kissing the back of the asset’s neck again. The asset goes blissfully limp under the attention, eyes falling half-closed. He wishes the blankets were tighter, and maybe wound down around his legs too. And maybe--maybe more than that, actually, maybe just everywhere that Steve doesn’t want to touch. He could be all wrapped up and quiet and Steve wouldn’t know if he slipped, then, and could just touch him without worrying. 

And the asset . . . the asset could remember Steve again when Steve already has him, maybe. 

Steve slides his hand down the asset’s stomach to wrap his fingers around his half-blown knot and the asset croons approvingly, toes curling and fingers tugging against the blankets. Steve squeezes his knot and he _sighs_ , head dropping back against the other’s shoulder. 

“Alpha,” he purrs contentedly. “Feels so nice, alpha. You always know how to make it nice.” 

“You like it?” Steve asks quietly; the asset nods as much as he can without dropping his head off his shoulder and presses his hips back to hear the other’s breath catch. 

“Yes,” he says. “I like it so _much_ , alpha, please don’t stop this time. Wanna be sweet for you. I feel good inside, right? I want you feelin’ it, let me be good for you.” 

“I know you’re good, omega,” Steve assures him in that same quiet tone that might as well be a shout for how effectively it blocks out every other sound in the world. The asset rubs back against him hopefully, a warm twisting feeling rising up in his stomach. Steve is still a little too soft, but the press of his rapidly-hardening cock against the asset’s ass is comforting anyway, brings him even more back into his skin. “You’re _so_ good. Nobody’s better for me than you.” 

“I’m good for you,” the asset agrees immediately, nodding along. Steve squeezes his knot again and the asset makes a noise somewhere between an omega whine and an alpha snarl, not really caring which comes out. “I’m your asset, alpha, I’ll be anything you want.” 

And “good”--good is even easier than that, because _he_ wants to be good too. 

“Bend your knee for me, okay?” Steve murmurs, reaching across the asset for the abandoned bottle of slick. The asset makes an insensibly pleased noise, immediately obeying by bracing a heel against the pillows to open himself for whatever way Steve wants to touch him, and all he can think is how _different_ this is from maintenance. Maintenance was always the same, sharp and painful and locked into one position, but Steve did this in the kitchen and living room and elevators and is rolling around the den with him so it will smell like him too and has a different way to touch him every time he wants it. 

_Wants_ it. 

Steve drops a kiss behind the asset’s ear and pushes two slicked-up fingers into him with gentle, steady pressure. The asset moans, immediately pushing back against them, and gets another kiss for it. 

“Are you gonna fill me up?” he pants. “Are you--the toy, maybe, are you gonna use that? I’d like that, your knot would feel so _good_. But I’d like your cock, too, and you wouldn’t have to get up for that, you could stick it in me right now.” 

“I know,” Steve says as he pulls his fingers out again to brace a hand on the asset’s hip, and then _does_. The asset muffles a yelp against the pillows that turns into a moan almost immediately, his whole body flushing hot and all his focus narrowed down to the slow, perfect push of Steve’s dick into him. It’s too much again, but the asset doesn’t care; the asset _wants_ it to be too much. 

With Steve, “too much” is always, always better than “not enough”. 

“Still with me?” Steve asks quietly, giving the asset’s cock a stroke. He nods breathlessly, trying not to squirm. Sometimes Steve thinks that means he wants to get away, although really all it ever actually means is that he wants to know he _can’t_ get away. He’s not sure Steve understands that, still. 

The asset wishes Wilson were here--not in the den itself, but on the bed, maybe, and they could draw the curtain back so he could see. Wilson is easier to explain things to, sometimes, and then he could explain to Steve. Steve might feel better that way too, with someone to keep an eye out and make sure he’s not doing anything that’s too much. 

He couldn’t, the asset knows, but _Steve_ doesn’t know that. So Wilson could watch and keep Steve company if the asset goes away in his head and remind him what the asset wants and that it’s okay, so the asset wouldn’t have to come back with Steve giving him that worried, hurting look and not touching him. Or Romanoff or Barton could, or even Banner, maybe. Just . . . anyone who’d make Steve comfortable enough to just _touch_ him no matter what, the asset thinks. 

. . . definitely not Stark, though. 

“Move?” the asset asks, rolling his hips back experimentally. Steve bites down on his shoulder and his teeth skid against scars and metal, and the asset _feels_ the impact vibrate inside his wrong arm. It’s--distracting. “Please move,” he tries, and Steve does. The pace he sets is a painfully slow metronome, but the asset doesn’t quite mind; if the pace isn’t exactly what he wants, that makes it exactly what _Steve_ wants, and something about “exactly what Steve wants” always feels better, somehow. Assures him he’s good and grounded and where Steve wants him to be. 

That this is not another slip, and he’s not really someplace else entirely with _someone_ else entirely. 

He’s _not_ , the asset reminds himself sharply, pressing back tighter into Steve. He is not exactly an omega but Steve is _definitely_ his alpha and he is _definitely_ with Steve and even if he were not, even if he forgot again or got confused, he’d still-- _Steve_ would still--

“More?” Steve asks against his ear, and the asset nods a little too fast. Steve tightens an arm around his stomach and his next thrust is deep enough that the asset nearly bites his tongue. 

“Yeah,” he sighs as his head lolls on his neck and Steve takes advantage of the chance to mouth hotly up his throat. “ _Oh._ Stevie, that’s really--you feel so good in me, please, alpha, _please_.” 

“I got you,” Steve murmurs, mouth ducking down the asset’s throat again and hips rolling in a tight, steady rhythm. The asset purrs, twisting his arms in the blankets again, and lets himself--not _slip_ , but just . . . slide, a little. It’s not the same thing. He still knows where he is and who’s touching him, he just also feels warm and breathless and like everything’s gone soft at the edges, even himself. It’s not real, it’s just a feeling--but it’s a _good_ feeling, and Steve is the only thing that gives it to him. 

“You got me. I’m all for you,” the asset agrees dreamily, relaxed and pliant and so _glad_ even with a rising fire burning up his gut and making his knot throb needily. He wishes Steve could knot him. He wishes he were knotting _Steve_. “Mmmm. _Mm_. You treat me so _nice_ , alpha.” 

“That’s ‘cause you are nice,” Steve says; part of the asset accepts the statement as obvious truth, coming from his alpha, and part of him shakes his head against it. “You _are_. Nicest thing I’ve ever had, Bucky.” 

The asset relaxes at that, stretching out indulgently to better tangle his legs with Steve’s. It’s easy to accept words like “nice” all the way through if he’s just a thing, a useful asset and not . . . whatever else. Things don’t think about what they are; they are told, and then they _know_. 

“Better than the nicest. Never had a thing in my life as good as you, Bucky,” Steve tells the asset, wrapping a hand around his knot again, and the asset _knows_. “You feel so good, omega. I love seeing you feel good. Let me see.” 

“I’m good,” the asset purrs, turning his face towards Steve’s and tugging at the blankets again. He’s _very_ good, staying tangled up where Steve put him and being all soft and hot and _tight_ for him, easy to fuck, lying still to take it and letting Steve make him feel just how he wants him to feel. That makes him so, so good, like he never wants to be for anybody else again. “Treat me like I’m good, alpha, I want it, I’m strong--you can do it as hard as you _want_.” 

Maybe even as hard as _he_ wants, if the asset is lucky. 

“You’re good,” Steve promises, and then sinks his teeth into the back of the asset’s neck in an alpha’s bite--the _keeping_ kind. The asset snarls in satisfaction and Steve fucks into him harder, dragging the asset’s body back tighter against his own and squeezing his knot as hard as he’s ever touched him. There’s precome smeared all over his wrist and the head of the asset’s cock rubs against it slick and easy and _so right_. 

“More,” he pleads, hips rocking back against Steve’s cock and forward into his grip but neck staying pressed into his teeth, staying just _exactly_ where it is. “More, more, _more_ \--” 

Steve makes a shushing noise without loosening his teeth and the asset growls back, except maybe it’s a purr. His hands fist in the blankets and he tucks his chin in against his chest, wanting the other to keep his teeth in him. Steve doesn’t seem inclined to let go either, only digging them in harder, and the asset feels increasingly soft-edged, and is also so _fucking_ hard. 

It’s comfortable slotted together like this--more than comfortable, with Steve’s teeth in his neck and staying there--but they don’t have the same leverage as they did before and it’s only a few more thrusts before the asset is whining in frustration and wanting even more than Steve is already giving him. It feels good, to be able to want that. 

And fucking frustrating as _fucking hell_. 

“ _Steve_ c’mon, c’mon baby, c’mon please, please please please I need it, it ain’t enough,” the asset begs, near-writhing in place as he struggles to keep himself from tearing out of his self-imposed bonds and either shoving the other over or dragging him properly on top of him. Both, even--they could roll around a little, he likes that, he just needs more first. He needs to _come_ , he’s waited too long not to. “You’re keeping me, aren’t you, I’m your asset, fucking _prove it_!” 

He’s a thing and he knows what he’s been told. He’s _not_ a thing and he needs Steve to prove it. He’s--he--

“You’re my good, good asset,” Steve murmurs against the back of the asset’s neck, his voice hoarse, and the asset _keens_. Steve keeps his hand tight around his knot and fucks him in steady, measured thrusts, inexorable and reliable as a clip sliding into place or the chair tilting back. The asset keeps keening, makes the greedy little pleased noises that always make Steve fuck him harder, and Steve _does_ fuck him harder, somehow, and all the asset can think about is how he’s about to come in him, get him wet and full and--and--

_“Alpha,”_ the asset sobs into the blankets, desperation spiking too sharp through the hot pleasure. Steve grips him tight, the arm around his waist and the hand around his knot both, and the asset writhes harder than he should. He yanks down the blankets around his arms accidentally and whimpers in reflexive distress, and Steve shifts behind him and--and _Steve_ \--Steve lets go of the asset’s knot and grabs his wrists with one big hand, forcing them down into the pillows without so much as stuttering the metronome-fuck of his hips. 

The asset registers all that, chokes, and then comes so hard he blacks out. He comes out of it a minute or an hour later with his body held crushingly tight in Steve’s arms and all filled up with the other’s come, warm and exhausted and knowing exactly how much Steve wants to keep him. 

The den smells just right. 

“Alpha,” he says again, softly, and Steve nuzzles the back of his neck. He doesn’t loosen his grip on him at all, and the asset somehow finds it in himself to go even limper. “Did you like it?” 

“I like everything you do, omega,” Steve tells him, squeezing his arms just a fraction tighter for a moment. For that moment, the asset can’t breathe, and everything is soft and dreamy and perfect. “Do you feel good?” 

“I’m good,” the asset agrees hazily, eyes half-lidded in satiation. He’s warm everywhere, and Steve isn’t letting go. He can feel the other’s stomach pressed into his back, and it’s calming; proof of life, a sign that . . . a sign that he . . . “I gave you pups. They’re gonna be--they’ll be strong ones. ‘Cause they’re yours.” 

“Ours,” Steve says, kissing behind the asset’s ear. His voice sounds raw. The asset likes it. “You’ll be a real good ma to them, Buck.” 

“Uh-huh,” the asset agrees quietly, letting his eyes fall shut. It’s safe to, with Steve. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees in turn, kissing him again. Steve believes the asset will be safe with the pups; Steve _trusts_ the asset with the pups, and they haven’t even been born yet. 

“I’ll fucking murder any son of a bitch who so much as looks twice at them,” the asset murmurs, twisting just enough to nuzzle at the other’s jaw. Steve laughs, or it’s almost a laugh. The asset will take his victories where he can get them. “I _will_ ,” he insists, because he needs Steve to _keep_ trusting him with them; to understand what he will do for them. “And I’ll teach them all the stuff they need to know.” 

Their pups will be able to take down the average adult assailant before they’re even old enough for kindergarten, if the asset has anything to say about it. Natalia could, when he taught her, and Yelena too, and the other girls whose names are a little harder to remember all managed it by the time they were seven. He was good at teaching them; it’ll be nice to do it again. 

He wonders if the pups are girls too. That would be . . . he would like that, he thinks. Boys are fine--anything that would make Steve happy is fine, and Steve’s already said he’ll just be happy with healthy pups--but he already knows how to take care of girls. 

He _wants_ girls, the asset thinks, and takes a moment to examine the strangeness of having a want that is not directly connected to Steve’s hands or hips or cock. He turns the thought of little girl pups over in his mind like he would a particularly sensitive scope, the image of some rough and tumble little girls that look like Steve and are big and strong like him and might--and might--

The asset opens his eyes again and stares blankly at the wall of the den as he recognizes another thing he wants that has nothing to do with Steve--a thing he wants very, very much. Even more than girls, and maybe even more than Steve. 

“Do you think they’ll like me?” he asks. Steve makes a startled little noise. 

“Bucky,” he says, grabbing the asset’s chin and pushing himself up on one arm to face him. The asset goes with it, because of course he does. Steve’s face is pained and sincere and very pretty even with his sweat-sticky skin and his hair all mussed up. Or maybe especially because of; the asset’s not sure. “Bucky, they’ll _love_ you.” 

The asset blinks, processes, and then drops his eyes down between them to the swell of Steve’s stomach. He examines that thought even more carefully than the thought of little girls who look like Steve, and this time he thinks: little girls who look like Steve, and _love him_. 

“I’m going to kill so many people for them,” he says, laying the right hand very carefully over Steve’s stomach. Steve kisses him, and still does not let him go. It feels good. 

He’s so glad Steve decommissioned him.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/) Come give me excuses to write on it.


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